The Hero of Wraithmarsh
by Irnysian
Summary: The life of an unwanted child is often a hard one. Thanks to a caring Uncle Logan, this princess was able to overcome the harsh realities of unlove; but following a loveless, abusive marriage, can she continue to rise above her unfortunate birth? Changed rating to 'M' for some events, and changed the categories to something more fitting for the direction the story is going in.
1. The Family That Abandoned Me

I met my father on my fifteenth birthday.

His present to me was announcing my engagement to a noble twice my age.

Papa was furious.

* * *

Perhaps I should explain the situation...

I have a mother and father, of course, but they wanted a son, and when I was born, a second daughter and not a third son, they were very unhappy. My mother refused to care for me, and so I was passed on the the maids. Being cared for by maids was no better than being cared for by a mother that hated you, however.

Soon after I was born, Logan, my father's older brother, came to visit his nephews, niece, and the newest addition to the family. When he arrived, he saw his niece and nephew playing, but could not find his newest niece anywhere. It was then that he learned who my caretakers were, and asked my father if he could raise me.

My father agreed, and Uncle Logan became Papa.

He hired my grandfather's old friend Jasper to help him, and they took me back to Papa's home in Brightwall, to be raised properly.

* * *

So, on my fifteenth birthday, I was taken to the castle to meet my father, and be presented at court. Papa thought it would be the normal presentation; I would be dressed up, paraded around, and no ill would come of it, save the obnoxious stares of men much older than myself. He had spent the week prior to my birthday schooling me on proper etiquette, and weeks before, had a new dress made.

He wanted my presentation to be a happy event for me, even though he knew it was unlikely such an event could ever be happy.

And he was right.

The morning of, I was woken up ridiculously early, dressed in traveling clothes, and rushed into a carriage bound for the monorail station. The monorail went twice as fast as a carriage, and there was no need to go around the mountains, so we were able to arrive in Millfields hours before the daily festivities of the court began (my father had begun throwing daily parties after my youngest brother was born). Which meant, in turn, that we were able to arrive at the castle hours before.

We were greeted by a maid, who insisted that my father was extremely busy, and that all she could do was show us to our rooms. She eyed my guardians – Papa and Jasper were men, of course, and men did not stay near women in the castle – but Papa told her that their rooms had been settled with his brother, and that we were to have the adjoining rooms near the gardens. She looked nervous to follow the orders she was given, but she lead us there, anyway.

Once in our rooms, Jasper helped me change into my new gown, and forced me to sit still in order for him to do my hair and make-up, which I fought, at first, but Jasper had become a tough old opponent over the years, so I quickly lost. When he was done, he allowed me to look in the mirror.

I was only fifteen, but I looked eighteen. Jasper had put a thick layer of make-up on my face, and it made me look like a porcelain doll. My blue eyes were lined with black ink to make them look bigger than they were, and Jasper had taken out the rolls he put in my hair the night before, so it fell around my shoulders in golden ringlets. The dress was rather simple, but made in blue silk the same shade of my eyes, with lace trim on the cuffs and hem.

I was overjoyed, but I learned later that this was planned by Papa, in an attempt to dull the pain I would likely feel later.

I walked into the throne room with my arm hooked around Papa's, smiling as wide as I could. But, no one paid attention to the grinning child. Not even my father, who was soon greeted with a bow by Papa. Father barely glanced at Papa, but sent away those he was speaking with at the time.

"Logan. I trust you found your rooms alright? Don't answer that, you fool; I don't care. Hobson insists I act the part of gracious host. It's tiresome..."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Now, why did you bother me?"

"Your Majesty, I came to introduce you to your daughter. Adaryn."

I swallowed my fear, and curtsied stiffly, the same grin on my face. My father looked over me with cold eyes, and brushed past us with the command to follow him. Papa wrapped my arm around his, again, and followed after my father.

He stopped in front of the throne, and, fixing a smile on his face, ended the festivities with the sound of his voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Today is the day we welcome my youngest daughter to court."

He motioned to Papa and I, and I felt the warmth of the man next to me disappear, while a gentle hand guided me forward to stand in front of my father. He stared down at me, his 'smile' not reaching his cold eyes, and I felt a shiver go down my spine. This was the man who created me? I did not want to meet the woman who birthed me...

"And, in honor of her fifteenth birthday, I have an announcement to make: three years from now, when she turns eighteen, she will marry a faithful servant of the throne, Sir Jonathan Hubert."

My heart dropped into my stomach, and a man surrounded by women – tall, muscular, wearing the uniform of a naval officer, with shoulder-length black hair – raised his glass with a smirk, nodding at those who clapped for him.

* * *

That night, after I had scrubbed the make-up off my face, torn the curls from my hair with a brush, and thrown my gown across the room, I cried myself to sleep, both Papa and Jasper asleep in armchairs next to the window.

They would be there, should I need them...unlike the father who sold me off to the highest bidder.

* * *

Author's Note: Ahahahahaha~ I realized that I had accidentally made Walter alive. I guess in my head, he was still alive. I fixed it, though. (This story and A Hero King will now both feature a dead Walter, I promise. No crazy moments of him being part of the action, even though he should be in the ground.)

This, if you cannot tell, is the first chapter of a story I have scrapped twice already. It has had a MAJOR face-lift, and facts have changed quite a bit. This will bear almost no resemblance to The Hero of Grom that used to exist. It also has a new name, which you will understand later in the story.

I hope you enjoy it. I'll be working on more chapters whenever I have time...which will be nearly all the time, since I'm on summer break.

Also, I will be starting one or two other stories at some point soon-ish. I have to figure out all the details...but, one is for Skyrim, and the other for Harry Potter. Because I have a sad lack of Harry Potter stories. I also may write another chapter for The Promise, but that's a big maybe. And, if you come across any odd one-shots...yeah, I've been on a story kick, lately...


	2. The Marriage I Never Wanted

The next three years of my life went by as they had, for the most part. I still lived with Papa and Jasper, but my fiance insisted that I have a female maid to dress me, as he apparently trusted no one. So, Jasper had to step down from his role as mother, and allow a woman not much older than myself take over. But she was rough, and didn't speak, so she didn't make much of a replacement.

I was no longer allowed to wear men's clothes when at home, as the maid, Jenna, said it was unladylike and 'unbecoming of an officer's wife'. So, I was restricted to fancy dresses and chest-crushing corsets.

Every now and then, my fiance would come to our home in Brightwall to visit me. He would usually bring gifts, but they were usually gaudy jewels of some sorts, and all he ever talked about was himself, so the visits were boring and tiresome. I was forced to smile, nod, never interrupt, and act like he was the greatest thing in Albion.

I would frequently sneak to Papa's room at night, after Jenna was asleep in her quarters near the kitchens, to cry and complain, and he would just listen to me and pet my hair. He was no one, now, you see; once a king, but now not even a prince, after having been thrown from the throne by my father.

And, sadly, no ones could do nothing to save their nieces from marrying an utterly obnoxious man.

* * *

The month of my birth rolled around, and numerous tailors, stylists, shoemakers, and florists would come to the manor, unannounced, to fit me for my gown, or make me try on shoes, and pull my hair into ridiculous shapes...and the florists were the worst! Always shoving flowers in my face, asking me which ones had the best aroma, color, shape.

I hadn't known that being a bride was so much work, but apparently, it was.

The day before my birthday, I was summoned to the castle, along with Papa and Jasper, to be witness to the decorating, to have the final fitting of my dress, and to basically just be an ornament for the men to look at. I played my role silently, a modest, fake little smile on my face at all times. Women asked if I was excited, and I mumbled a quiet 'Of course'. Men asked if I thought my husband would be good to me, and I would 'blush' and nod, mumbling about all the gifts and sweet visits from him.

That night, I cried myself to sleep.

* * *

I don't remember the wedding. I don't remember the gown, or my hair, or hat flowers I was holding. I don't remember Papa's face, or my father's face as he performed the ceremony. I don't remember the vows, or the exchange of rings...not even the kiss.

I remember absolutely nothing from my wedding day, save for the feeling of utter and complete loneliness, and the presence of a tall man, dressed in clothes that would make my father and groom jealous.

Try as I might, I could not remember the man's face, his name, his voice. Just that he asked my now-husband if he could dance with me, and that it took five minutes of convincing for him to agree. Perhaps I remembered what dance it was, but I had blocked so much out of my mind, had resolved to pay attention to nothing, so the memories just would not surface.

What I do remember, unfortunately, is our wedding night.

After the festivities, Jonathan and I were thrust into a carriage bound for his manor in Millfields. He kept calling me 'Mrs. Hubert', and with every repetition of the name, my stomach lurched. To him, I was not Adaryn; I was Mrs. Jonathan Hubert. To others, I would be Lady Adaryn Hubert, Princess of Albion, but wife of a naval officer. To him...to him, I was property, and I could hear it in his voice every time he called me 'Mrs.'.

When we arrived at his manor, he climbed out of the carriage, hoisted me over his shoulder, and carried me like a sack of flour all the way into his bedroom – our bedroom – while I screeched and kicked, and fought to be freed. When we got into the room, he threw me on the bed and locked the door.

I was sobbing, now, but Jonathan did not care. He was rough, he was cruel, and he didn't stop even to make my tears stop. He ripped my dress to shreds in an attempt to get it off of me, and every time I struggled, he beat me. I was screaming and crying so loudly, I was surprised no servants came to check...but I realized that they had probably been given the night off, or didn't care.

Before that night, I was a virgin. Before that night, everyone had always treated me gently. But that night...that night, a man forced himself on me, beat me when I screamed for help, when I told him to stop, and fell asleep with his hands tangled in my hair.

* * *

I did not love him. I could not love him. He knew this, and he berated me for it. He told me that no one but himself could could love me. That I was nothing. Not even my own parents wanted me.

And he was jealous, controlling. We had no male staff, I was allowed no visits from anyone male, including Papa and Jasper, and at night, when I was again dragged into our bed, he called me names, beat me, and told me that if I ever left him or was with another, he would kill me.

My marriage was awful, but I learned to endure it, for the most part. I didn't eat much anymore, so the curves I had developed became more pronounced from the lack of fat around them...and the same went for my bones. I was always inside, and got almost no sleep, so I was always exhausted and pale; my maids had to cake the make-up on my face for me to look alive and healthy.

True, the only thing that kept me alive was the hope that he would die in battle, and I would be a widow, free to roam my house, and take what visitors and what pleasures in life I desired.

But there was another thing I hoped would stay his hand.

And luckily for me, that thing came about a year and a half into the marriage from The Void.

* * *

When our second anniversary came around, I was already four months pregnant with our first child.

When I told Jonathan I was with child, he thought I was lying, to get out of having sex. But, when my maid confirmed that I hadn't bled in weeks, his mood turned from disbelief to jealousy. He constantly asked if the baby was his, if I had seen anyone; I always replied that he kept me under lock-and-key, that I knew no one, that there was no other possible father, but for a month, he refused to believe me.

When he finally calmed down and accepted that the child was his, and my waist began to expand as proof, he became almost nice. He no longer forced me into our bed, he kept his parts away from me, and he treated me almost like I was a real human being.

Our child, he insisted, would be a boy. A boy, he said, who he would teach to be a man, who he could take hunting, and teach to fight, and show how to properly control one's home. I humored him, though in the back of my mind, I swore to myself that if it was a boy, I would see fit to teach him, in private, how one _actually_ treated a woman and control one's home.

If, on the off-chance it was a girl, he said, he could not teach the child anything, he would pass the duties on to me. But he had strict rules, he said, and they would be followed.

I wasn't sure what emotion to feel when things turned out the way they did.

Author's Note: Second chapter! Done and uploaded less than 24 hours after the first chapter! This is in an effort to give you something to read while I am away, as I am on vacation, and have no clue when I can get online again to upload things. I will attempt to write chapter three in the small amount of time I have before we get on the move again, and away from internet, but I have a feeling chapter three will be long...

I hope Adaryn's character seems like she's supposed to. I'm hoping that showing her marriage as I do will help to better explain things later on, and will show just how much she has to change in order to get past going from a loving home to an abusive one.

I also apologize if this offends anyone. I don't mean it to, but frankly, the story required it. I tried to be as vague as possible, as I usually do – no real explanations, just hints and whatnot – but if it does bother someone, I apologize profusely. Obviously, I do not think the behavior shown by Jonathan is in any way, shape, or form good behavior, and any person, man or woman, who does such things is abhorrent.

Hopefully, we can look past this depressing bit, and enjoy the rest of this story (I don't expect anyone to 'enjoy', per say, this chapter)...


	3. The Deal That I Was Glad To Make

My months of pregnancy came and went, and soon I was mere weeks away from bursting. I had been having pains, though; the midwives said that could happen, that sometimes the body acted like it was ready, but these were not pains like the ones they described. I put it out of my mind, though, because I was eating more, I was allowed walks in the sunlight, and I no longer had to deal with my husband's violence.

But the pain got worse. I began complaining more often of it, and would frequently skip meals to sleep the pain away in the library, one of the few places I could go to get away from everyone.

Jonathan noticed, and his jealousy flared again. He thought perhaps I was worried, that the baby would come out looking nothing like him, but like another man, that he would find out about my affair. There was no affair, I'd tell him. But I was not strong enough to argue back all the time, and so the seed blossomed.

When my time was nearing an end, and my maids and I were preparing to welcome the baby into the world, Jonathan drank four bottles of wine on his own, in an attempt to forget 'the affair'. It didn't work.

He came after me, that night, in our room. He beat me, like he used to, and tried to overpower me again, but I started screaming from the pain; I had grown used to being handled with care, now, so being throttled again hurt as much as it had when it happened the first night. He threw me against the bed to make me stop, and the last thing I remember from his attack is the room going black.

I woke up later to my own screams, and the desperate cries of the midwives as they attempted to calm me and deliver the baby. Be prepared, they said. Calm down, they said. Something's wrong, they said. The pain was so great, and paired with the beating I had just received from a drunken, abusive husband, mad with jealousy, the feeling overpowered me, and I blacked out again.

* * *

They had to replace the bedclothes, and the feather mattress. Too much blood, they said; she could have died...

I felt dead.

My maids dressed me in the simplest black dress they could find, days later, and wheeled me out to the cemetery. I couldn't move; I was too weak, so I was pushed there and back in a wheelchair.

I buried my first child that day. It was a weak little baby, anyway, the midwives had told me. It wouldn't have lasted through the night. But they were making excuses, something to tell my husband so he wouldn't know he had killed our child. No, now he could blame me, for not giving birth to a healthy baby.

They never let me see my child. Never told me what it looked only thing I was able to do was give it a name, for the tombstone.

Jeannette Hubert.

My little angel.

* * *

Life went back to the way it had been: me moping about, Jonathan taking every chance he had to 'put me in my place'. Except I ceased fighting back. I stopped screaming and struggling and pushing him away. I just laid there, glaring at him the entire time, attempting to allow him no enjoyment. I hated him; I hated everything about him. Every movement, every sound, every expression. His very presence sickened me.

He was the reason my Jeannette was dead. I didn't care that she was 'weak'; he had beat me, he had put me through so much stress...he was the one who killed my Jeannette, not me. My body could have handled motherhood. I could have nursed my baby to health, could have made her strong, and beautiful, with the milk from my bosom.

But that was taken from me, by one of _his_ moods. One if _his_ fits. _He_ was the reason. He would always be the reason. And I despised him for it.

I spent my free time imagining his death. I spent hours daydreaming of some tragedy that would take him from this world. Maybe a war would start, and his ship would go down. Maybe pirates would attack, and he, being a captain now, would be the first one killed, to send the men into a frenzy.

Or perhaps I was spending too much time trying to get back at the man who had ruined my life.

No, that was not fair to him. Yes, he was awful, and yes, he was the one who did this to me. But my father was the one who had sold me off. My father was the one who had allowed such a thing to happen. And my father was the one who had the audacity to suggest we try to conceive again, before too long.

Thankfully, my husband was turned off by the sight of me, now. I had glared so many time, had watched him too closely...he had taken to beating me, and taking advantage of me in other ways, but he didn't dare impregnate me. He said I was too crazy, that it would have to be beaten out of me before he allowed me to become a mother.

Losing my Jeannette had, in fact, sent me over the edge. But I was not crazy. Far from it.

I was perfectly sane.

Was it not sane to wish the man who caused you so much pain death? Was in not sane to glare at him, to hate him, to reject him with every fiber of your being?

I had not wanted to bear his children, that much was true. I didn't want to look at them and know they were his. But, they were _my children_. Or, they would have been, had we successfully had any. And now, more than anything, I wished Jeannette had lived. I wished I could have my baby girl, my little angel, and could raise her to be strong, independent.

I could raise her to be the woman I would have been, had the chance not been taken from me.

_The wind was gentle, and the sand was warm, on the shores of Lake Bower. She was dressed in a long, light blue gown, simple in structure, yet fully covering, as her husband insisted. She did not mind, really; she was still able to lounge on the beach, in a light wicker chair, as the girl ran about screaming._

_She was a little thing, the girl, with the dark hair of her father, but blue eyes of her mother. A pretty little thing, dressed in a yellow child's gown, her hair pulled up in little ringlets. Their trip to the beach was for her; their manor was not far from here, but there was little to do within its walls, and the summer heat was unbearable, so here they were, on the beach, where the little love could chase the waves and feel the breeze._

_'Jeannette! Jeannette, darling, stay close to Mummy!'_

_The woman in blue smiled, hidden from the sun by an umbrella, free to watch her daughter run and scream and play in the water._

_Not far from them was the figure of a man. Older, now; aging, gray. Life with a happy wife had put stress on him, and, even at forty, he looked old and tired. He no longer took pleasure in beating his wife...but he did find her reactions when he threatened their child to be satisfactory._

_'Jeannette! Jeannette! Come to Father!'_

_And so she did. And the woman in blue watched with horror as the man picked up his daughter. He smiled at the woman in blue, the wicked smile of a man who planned horrid things in his head._

_The scene flashed to that of a cemetery, everything dead or dying. Above her coffin the woman in blue stood, the only colorful thing in this gray world. She looked around, shrieked, beat the stone marker with her soft hands. **'Jeannette Hubert, taken before she had the chance to live.' **It was her daughter, her child who had never lived._

_'All his fault.'_

_'All his fault.'_

_'All his fault...'_

The dreams were more frequent. I would wake up, tears rolling down my face, with _him_ laying nearby, snoring.

They were always of my daughter. They were always of happy times, of my daughter laughing and playing. Sometimes she was a baby, sometimes a toddler, and sometimes I attended her wedding, the smiling mother of the bride. And every time, he invaded my dreams, turned the happy moment sour. Whether it was with threats, or violence, or merely a smile, he would ruin everything.

And I'd wake up crying, after standing over her grave, screaming and beating it with my hands.

'Give me my daughter back! Give her back!' It was what I screamed, until I fell to the ground, exhausted, whispering about it being his fault.

And the idea imbedded itself in my subconscious. I already blamed him, but now, it was a sickness. It was not just nausea and glares; it was full-blown hatred, strong enough to make his skin crawl when I glared at him.

It was soon after this – the dreams, the hatred, the unending feeling of loss and revenge – that he got an invitation to a party. Well, _we_ got an invitation: "To Sir Jonathan and Lady Adaryn, an invitation most cordially extended to you from the _astounding _Reaver, for a most wonderful masquerade ball; your attendance is expected."

Jonathan was furious for a time, but he could not afford to offend the man. I had never met him, but I had heard of his relationship with my father. The two had been attached at the hip for a year, Reaver always suggesting ways to gain money, and my father always taking them. He was practically immune to my father's anger, and he owned almost everything in Industrial, provided he continue funding the crown.

So, to deny an invitation to a party thrown by a man of such wealth and power would be suicide, social or otherwise. And as much as the invitation angered Jonathan, he was not about to put his career – or his life – on the line, simply because he did not want to go.

He sent for a tailor, and told them man that he must make our costumes match. Presumably, it was so people knew we were a couple, but I knew it was so he could watch for me, so he could track my movements (because everyone knew that a party thrown by Reaver was a party that ended with you waking up in unknown places).

The night of the masquerade came, and we were sitting in our carriage, his suit and my gown matching shades of yellow, our masks that of a lion and his mate. I felt we looked ridiculous, but my husband said it looked powerful, and I didn't dare argue with him.

It was to be held in a large manor in Bowerstone Old Town, which had, since my birth, been renovated somewhat by the nobles who wished to live there. It wasn't a large manor, but it apparently would not be as large of a party as Reaver normally threw, so attendance by those invited was not merely expected, but practically mandatory.

When we arrived, we were greeted by servants dressed in next-to-nothing, save the rags of a slave. We had no clue why – and Jonathan covered my eyes when we passed by the men – but when faced with our host, it began to make sense.

The home had been decorated in jewel and precious metal colors. Everything shined, everything sparkled, and the host stood out among his guests: dressed in a high-collared, sapphire-colored suit, covered in jewels, and with a mask in the shape of a dragon, Reaver was not only the tallest and best-dressed man in the room...he was the most eye-catching. And the presence of 'slaves' then made sense, as the stories of dragons talked of monstrous things that kept humans as slaves, and filled their lairs to the brim with treasure.

We were expected to present ourselves to our host, so Jonathan wrapped my arm around his, took off our masks, and forced our way through the crowd to where Reaver was standing. When we got to him, my husband bowed his head and smiled – his fake smile – in greeting, while I just stood there and looked at the ground. Reaver barely paid attention to Jonathan at first, but when he realized who it was that was speaking to him, he shooed the women he had been 'impressing' and put his attention on us.

"Ah, Sir Jonathan Hubert. It is so nice of you to join us here; word is that you don't let anyone see your pretty wife these days. And yet here she is!"

Reaver smiled at me as he grabbed my hand, and bent down to kiss my knuckles. My face turned pink, and Jonathan looked angry again, but Reaver didn't seem to notice. Or, perhaps he didn't care.

"Lady Adaryn, how nice to see you. I am _so sorry_ about your little bundle of joy. Really, I am. I was at the funeral, actually. I attended in your father's place – he was _so_ busy, after all – and I must say, the ceremony was touching. I never thought I'd see a woman glare at the ground with such fire!"

"Reaver, is there a point to your assault on my wife's sensitivities?"

Jonathan made it sound like he cared, but I knew he didn't. You could hear the hatred in his voice, the hatred toward myself and my behavior. But Reaver continued, anyway.

"Assault? My dear man, why would I assault a woman of such beauty and standing? Surely you do not believe that _I_ would _ever lay a finger on a woman_, do you?"

He said it like he knew our lives, like he could see the bruises under my clothes. Jonathan's fake smile faded, and was replaced by a scowl. He threw our masks on the ground, shoved me away from him, and stomped off to find a servant to scream at.

He had never left me alone, before. I didn't even know it was possible for him to get angry enough to leave me alone, but apparently it was.

I bent down to pick up my mask, and before I even had a chance to apologize to Reaver for my husband's behavior, he was gone. I was now standing alone in a crowd, everyone around ignoring me. I placed my mask back on my face and made a move to find Jonathan – I was sure he would be cross if I disappeared – but in the next second, a servant had me by the elbow and was guiding me through the crowd and away from the party.

The servant took me to the study and left me there, apparently not worried that I would wander away. But I had to get back to Jonathan...

Unfortunately, I had no chance to. It was dark, so I couldn't see, but a man walked into the room and locked the door behind him. I backed up against the desk, searching for anything I could use to defend myself, but before my hands could find anything, a match was lit, and the gas lamp on the table by the door was lit. The man was Reaver, and he went about the room lighting every lamp.

"Why am I here? If Jonathan sees me missing, he'll-"

"You're here to do business, _vous femme pr__é__cieuse_. I know what your life is like, and even a deviant like myself knows how to properly treat someone. Beating and raping them does not count as proper."

"How do you..?"

"I know everything. I _am_ Reaver."

He took off his mask, and there before me stood a man with the face I could not remember, the man more attractive than my husband...the only man brave enough to dance with me on my wedding day.

"And I've brought you here to help with a problem of yours."

Author's Note: Not as long as I had thought it would be, but mainly because I decided to leave the next part for chapter four, so as to separate it as I saw fit.

This chapter went through some changes in editing, and I'm hoping that means changes for the better. I spent an entire day writing this, so, obviously, that means I took considerable breaks in between parts. So, I also hope it run together smoothly...

I'm sure it will be easy to guess what the next chapter will include.

Again, I apologize for the subject matter. Part of me thinks I should bump the rating up, since it's more or less 'Everything is horrible, ahahaha, FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE!' for the first few chapters...but, the other part of me thinks that if you can't handle it, don't read it. So, I'll probably just write a warning in the summary...

Also, Reaver is a bit odd in this chapter. As I've said in previous stories, he's difficult to work with. Some people do it so well, but you really have to get into that head of his...though I like to think he has some lines he would never cross, which is why he's willing to help Adaryn.

Well...not the only reason, of course.


	4. My Burden To Carry

He had asked me to open his window, so I did. He was busy, so I left the room.

He was signing recommendations for discharges. He thought some of his men weren't doing well enough, so they therefore deserved to be kicked from the navy.

He was shot in front of the window. He had gotten up to get some air, when a bullet from somewhere unknown shot him in the head.

Somewhere unknown.

I knew.

* * *

The funeral was held three days later. This time, I was able to stand, in the same black dress as before, and 'cry' as the service was read. People frowned, squeezed my hand, patted my shoulder, offered condolences. I was the gracious widow, the sad widow.

Presumably heartbroken, I cried the whole time. I even threw flowers on his coffin, and as he was lowered into the ground, I stood by to watch him, silent and gray.

An angry underling, they said. The man knew he was being fired, knew who was doing it to him, and shot him from the street. They would find the man, they assured me. There weren't that many employed on his ship, after all; just a standard crew. I cried then, too, as they told me the murderer would be found and brought to justice.

Everyone thought I was sad. Everyone thought I would go into mourning, and stay there. I had already lost a child, and now a husband.

I played the part. I dyed my clothes black, I wore hats and veils, I never smiled. But inside, I was happy. I was now a widow. A wealthy widow. A young, beautiful, wealthy widow, free from her abusive husband. I had no one to answer to, I had compensation money to add to our accounts, and I had plans for my home.

The first thing I did was fire all my staff. The next thing, sell the manor. My excuse was that I couldn't bear to live in a place that felt like home, like Jonathan. But really, I wanted my own life, my own home.

I bought one of the small manors in Bowerstone Old Town. Three story, a few spacious rooms, and a change of pace, of location. I had some of the furniture, the few pieces I liked, moved to the new home, and bought more with the compensation money. The home was sparsely decorated, and had little furniture, but it was welcoming, and small. And, I could have anyone I wanted come and visit.

However, before I could do that, I had the matter of payment to clear up.

* * *

Reaver occupied the manor in Old Town for now, before he decided to move on, so I was to call on him there as soon as I was able. 'Jonathan had unfinished business with him; it's my duty to see it done.' The maids bought it, and so I was able to leave without much question. Dressed in my now-usual black, lace hiding my face from view, I walked down the busy street to repay a debt.

The servant who greeted me at the door was a pretty young thing; younger than myself, I should say, since I was only twenty-one at the time. She took me to the study I had been dragged to before, and asked me to wait for her master. I did so by perusing the shelves of his bookcases, curious as to what a man who killed for fun would read.

"Ah, _petite veuve_, what wonderful timing you have; I was preparing to leave tomorrow."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy to come see me? Oh, _ma belle femme_, you wound me!"

"I am here to hold up my end of the bargain, Reaver, not joke around and flirt."

The smile faded from his face, and he dropped into the chair behind his desk. I left the shelves to sit in front of him, solemn and serious.

"Right to business, hm? Fine: I shot your poor, sweet husband, and now you owe me."

"This was agreed on, yes."

"Yes. You owe me. And I'm calling in the favor. Right now."

He stood again, and made his way around the desk, watching me as he went. I was not sure why he was coming back around, but I stood to move away.

"I shot your husband, and now you're standing here, alone, in my study."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Why on earth would I threaten you, _petite veuve_? I just killed the only man to ever threaten you; that screams 'Don't cross me'."

He came closer, and soon I found myself against a wall, literally, with nowhere the run.

"What do you want from me?"

"It's been a few days since my last adventure, Princess. And, if the last few years of your life are to be believed, you've never known a proper adventure."

"_Sex?_ You're trying to get _sex?_"

"Think of it as more help: the wealthy bachelor teaching the wealthy widow how to live."

"I need no help."

"Oh, but I think you do."

When I married Jonathan, I was a virgin. I had not lied about that, as much as he liked to think I did. But when he died, I was still a virgin; yes, I had been pregnant, but I had never had sex. I didn't count his assault of me as sex. I counted it as violation, as heartache and betrayal.

When I left Reaver's home that afternoon, I was no longer a virgin. My status was as far from virginity as one could get in the course of a few hours.

And I had never felt more alive.

As I laid there, tangled in the sheets of his ridiculously large bed – to accommodate more people, he said – the realization that I should leave hanging around my head, I caught a glimpse of something dark on the bedside table. Reaver, having already gotten up from the bed and dressed himself again, followed my gaze and smiled.

"Ah, yes...that is the second part of your end of the bargain. I need you to take this somewhere for me. Feel free to hire as many guards as you see fit; it has to be taken to Wraithmarsh."

"Wraithmarsh! Are you insane? I'll die!"

"I said take guards with you, didn't I? Besides, I did the dirty work, and slept with you for the first time-"

"You said that was part of my end!"

"Well, consider it a joint effort."

"Ass!"

"I do not deny it."

I got up, grumbling under my breath, to find my clothes. They seemed to have disappeared as I had laid there...

"Anyhow, I did the dirty work, and slept with you – and I know you've never done that before, _ma belle_ – so now it's time for you to do something for me. _Est juste est juste_."

He was right, it was only fair.

So I agreed. And when I left, I left with a token in my hand.

Author's Note: Two chapters in one day? Why yes, yes I can pull such a thing off.

In fact, if you notice, I'm breezing through these first few chapters. Like, "Wazzup, chapters; dat's right, I'm the master of speed-writing and shit, yo."

I think I managed to get Reaver at least mostly right in this. I'm not used to writing in franglais, though, so it's kind of clumsy. And I'm sorry if you think I go a little overboard with it; to me, Reaver seems like the kind of person who would use French when trying to flatter someone, like he does with the constant use of nicknames. Because, if you think about it, as masculine as he seems, he's also rather flamboyant, so his use of a foreign language as a means to impress others and look refined makes just too much sense.

So, this is chapter four. Very short, I know.


	5. The Will Inside Of Me

Before I left on my 'business trip', I sent a letter to Papa, whom I was finally allowed to talk to, after all these years, and told him that as soon as I was back, he would be _required_ to come visit me. His quick reply, delivered right before I was to leave the next day, said that I had better stay safe, and use what skills I had been taught, or else he'd throttle me when we met after death.

He must have guessed my trip was less than safe, but I didn't care. I was a new person, a free person.

I met my guards – five mercenaries, whom I had promised to pay the moment they got me home safely – on the docks, where the ship I had hired waited. I had told only the captain the specifics of our trip, and he was instructed to take only the men he trusted most. He followed his orders, and once I was content with the state of affairs, we were off, headed in the direction of Bloodstone.

Bloodstone. The name of the city sang to me, yet I did not know why. I had been raised to be proper, kind, modest...but Bloodstone was none of those things. Bloodstone was a town of killers, pirates, whores. A place where anything went, as long as you could defend yourself in the event of being offended or offending another. My men, the mercenaries I had hired, seemed more than happy to visit the place, and I was more than happy to obliged.

When we arrived, I left the ship dressed as a woman with little to lose – tattered, revealing garments, hair frizzy and tangled, weapons strapped to my person – the men I had hired close at my heels. We rented out every room in one of the inns (which cost next to nothing, I was happy to find), and the men spent the night drinking and whoring, while I watched from the second-floor balcony. I was not interested in having fun; not yet, anyway. I wanted to get my part of the deal over with before I reveled in my freedom.

I was still a woman in debt, after all.

We left early the next morning. Thankfully, the mercenaries of Albion were used to working on little sleep, and hung-over or still drunk, so the going was smooth...until we hit the swamps of Wraithmarsh, of course. There were no trolls to worry about, not since Papa had had them all destroyed, but the Hollow Men still roamed the swamps in swarms.

I had taken the time to put armor on before we left that morning, but there wasn't much, and it wasn't as effective as full chain mail would have been hundreds of years ago. The real trick with Hollow Men, however, was successful blocking: including myself, there were six able fighters; three would act as bait, and block as many blows as possible, while the other three made quick work of the attackers. Really all one had to do was sever their necks, and they would fall apart.

Even with this system, it took us hours to get to our destination. And when we did, we were afraid to enter. But, I reminded the men that they would be paid when I made it home safely, so we proceeded.

The structure was old and crumbling, and occasional whispers put the men on edge; I wasn't sure if I was afraid or nervous, but shivers did make their way down my back a few times. Sometimes, it felt like the shadows were watching us, and other times, the air would practically freeze, making the men stop and whimper for a bit. I scolded them every time they did, but they didn't know they had signed up for a haunted house.

Neither did I.

We eventually made it to the main chamber, though to call it a chamber would be incorrect. There was only a strip of ground, maybe ten feet long, while the rest was either gone or leaving, crumbling to the endless black beneath. Across from the platform on which we stood, three large chairs loomed on the edge of the black, made entirely of stone. When I neared the edge, one hand wrapped around the seal tied around my neck with a bit of string, three shadowed figures appeared in the chairs.

The one in the middle was the largest, and, judging by the movement of its arms, was the one speaking to us now.

"You stand before the Shadow Court. One of you holds the Dark Seal. Present it."

I ripped the seal from the string and held it above my head, presenting it to them as they had requested. The men shook behind me, but none moved, as if they were stuck in place.

"The one in possession of the seal sacrifices themselves to continue the life of the indebted. Decide: keep the seal, or give up one of your followers."

The moment I heard this, my arm fell to my side. Sacrifice myself? How?

Reaver had not said anything of this. But of course he hadn't; he was Reaver. I knew not to trust him, so why was I surprised he was offering people to this Shadow Court as payment for something?

Well, there was no way _I_ would give up myself for the man. I turned on my heel, no more than two seconds after the shadow had given me the choice, and placed the seal in the hand of the youngest mercenary. He would have died, anyway: he was young, stupid, and had gotten injured one too many times on the way. He looked at me with eyes full of disbelief, but was unable to move.

"The offering is made."

As we stood and watched in horror, the young man had his very youth stolen, and soon an old man with white hair and wrinkled skin stood before us. He looked on the verge of death, and I turned back around to see the shadows fading.

"WAIT!"

We were all still frozen in place (though the men turned about in horror, attempting to run away), so I took my chance. As they darkened and manifested again, their stares feeling like glares, I spoke up:

"What is Reaver offering people for?"

"Eternal youth."

"Can he die?"

"Not as long as he continues sending us tributes."

"Can...can I..."

I swallowed my fear, for the second time in my life, and stood up tall and strong, in an attempt to look powerful, worthy.

"I desire to look young forever, to have no chance of dying. Give it to me."

The shadows laughed, and their laughter caused the entire cavern –that's what it was, a cavern – to shake. Rocks slid into the black from their unsteady perches, and I felt the platform beneath us shift.

"What do you have to offer us? The man you know as 'Reaver' gave an entire town, everything he held dear. What can you possibly give to justify such an investment?"

"I have nothing dear, but I can give you the four men I have left, and twenty more."

"The four you have are young, they have potential...we will take them, and demand only sixteen more. But," they stopped and stared at me so hard I thought my organs would explode, "you must kill them yourself. Prove you are worth keeping alive."

The men behind me cowered and yelled, now aware that they would not return to collect their earnings. I turned to face them, my hand unsteady on the hilt of my blade; I had never killed a man before, and before today, I had never even seen combat. Hell, I had puked the moment the first few Hollow Men were dead. Now I was expected to kill twenty men?

Something inside me burned as I stared down the men who had kept me alive on our trip here. I couldn't place it, but it felt like flames were boiling the blood in my veins. It grew in heat, and swelled the encompass my entire body, and I was screaming. The shadows watched, their stares only adding to the heat within my body, before finally, it burst.

Flames erupted from my clenched fists, and I threw it at the now screaming men. I didn't even know what I was doing until they laid in heaps on the floor, blood and burned flesh everywhere.

This time, I did not vomit. This time, I did not shake. This time, I stood tall and proud, breathing heavily from the effort of slaughtering four.

And I left that cavern to find sixteen more.

Author's Note: I'm not sure how many who read this will have read 'The Hero of Grom', but if you have, you will notice that this is far from the story. I mean, really far from it.

For one, the main character was Keelin, not Adaryn, but that's minor. For another, she was quiet, unassuming, and whiny.

Now, she kills men with her bare hands.

Like a boss.

Enjoy! :-D


	6. The Hero Of Wraithmarsh

It took me only an hour and a busy pub, but I found my sixteen offerings, plus some.

I had climbed on a table, covered in blood and dirty swamp water, shouting about the greatest find anyone could have stumbled across. No one listened, save a few of the more drunk patrons, thinking they'd hear a nice story, so I continued shouting about a cache, a huge cache, out in the middle of nowhere, waiting for someone to claim it. Immediately, everyone dropped what they were doing and clamored to hear more.

I told them that someone had hidden a huge cache of valuables in the middle of Wraithmarsh, to keep people from finding it – what better hiding place than a haunted marsh, right? There was enough there for fifty men, but I had collected caches of similar sizes with less, and only needed 'about sixteen' to come with me. They all crowded me, asking to be brought, demanding their share. I said that I would take them, if they were brave enough to walk through Wraithmarsh. I told them that there was too much for even fifty men to carry – changing my story a bit, but they didn't notice, and a larger size meant more volunteers – but that whatever they could drag back with them, they could have, provided they not tell anyone about the cache.

The residents of Bloodstone were idiots.

* * *

When we started our journey to the 'cache', I had twenty-seven volunteers trailing behind me, swords and guns ready for the trip. Hollow Men took nine of them, in glorious battle – it seemed glorious, at least, from my safe little perches above the fighting – and yet the remaining eighteen thought nothing of it. Wraithmarsh taking its due, they said. Besides, now there were less of them, and that meant larger shares for those left over.

Some of them were terrified, of course. The stories of Wraithmarsh turning men mad were abundant, and the thugs of Bloodstone had never faces the undead. I told them they would be safe with me, if they kept fighting. I told them that the moment they got to the cache, to collect their gold, they could run straight back to their homes, straight back to the 'safety' of Bloodstone's streets.

But they would not collect treasure from a cache. They would not go back to their homes, to the grimy streets they were likely to be murdered on, the key to their houses and their valuables picked off their dead bodies. I told myself their lives would have been short, as I had with the other four. I told myself that they had no future ahead of them, nothing to look forward to. Maybe one or two of them would get the money, turn their lives around and move to the city, start a family or a business...but only a few of them would be able to.

I led them into the halls of the Shadow Court. I led them into the cavern, that barely held their bodies. The moment their feet stopped moving on the stone floor, they froze in place, unable to run. The shadows appeared again, to watch me, to make sure I did the deed, and I did.

Fire and blood were all my senses took in. I was a god, taking life as I saw fit, ending the miserable existence of so many. I felt no remorse, I saw no wrong in the deeds my hands committed. The screams of the dying were like music, and I was the conductor, making the notes swell and rise with the pain I inflicted.

The shadows had no expressions, but the tone the large one used made it sound almost as if they were pleased, amused. They said the deal was made, my end of the bargain complete, for now. They would send for me the next time I was needed to fulfill a sacrifice. I would know what to do.

I scrubbed off three layers of skin before returning home.

* * *

I was a killer, now; a cold-hearted murderer. I had let no tears fall for those I had cut down, I had felt no wrong had been done as I left with eternal life. No...no, I was to be young and eternal, as Reaver was. I was to live forever, to amass wealth and power.

Perhaps the Shadow Court's acceptance of me was a bit anti-climactic; I had killed all these people, and they merely said I would have what I wanted. But I already noticed a difference: I may have only been twenty-one, but I had the wrinkles of a woman who had lived under constant stress; now, they were gone, replaced by flawless skin and the freckles of a woman allowed sunlight. I practically glowed, now, and anyone who had seen me as a pale widow would be surprised to see such a healthy woman.

I thought back to the cavern, to the slaughter of all those people. I had done that; I had taken their lives. And the power I had felt, coursing through my veins... Was that the kind of power killers felt? Was that what my father felt when he took a life? Was that what Heroes had felt when fighting, when doing whatever good or evil they deemed fit? Was it, perhaps, only Heroes who felt such power?

Yes...I was a Hero. The fire that had erupted from my being had been will spilling out in a chaotic frenzy. Perhaps I was not as good with sword or gun, but I knew I could summon the very fire to do my bidding. And with research, training, I could command more than fire; I could become as powerful as my father. More powerful, even!

Was this the woman Jonathan had married? Had he not known he had taken a Hero to bed, had insulted a woman far more powerful than himself? Well, now I knew, and I would never let anyone do that to me again. No one would take advantage of Adaryn the Hero.

The Hero who never died. The Hero of Wraithmarsh.

I was a Hero.

* * *

When I left his home, I had told him that I would return the seal to its owners as soon as possible. Reaver said he'd be waiting for my return, but I didn't believe him. And yet there he was, in my home, waiting for me. My servants swore they had told him to leave, said to come back I was back, but he had threatened them, and then ordered them about as if he owned the place. I assured them I was not angry, that they had handled the situation as best they could, then shooed them out of the room.

He was sitting at _my_ desk, with his feet up and his bottom in _my_ chair. He was eating _my_ food, in _my_ house, and had harassed _my_ staff. I was not angry with them, oh no. I was angry with _him_.

"Get your filthy boots _off_ _my desk_."

"Pardon?"

"Get. Your. Boots. Off. My. Desk. Or so help me, I will strip you of them!"

"Well, if it isn't _ma petit vueve_! Why, you look lovelier than ever, my dear. What is your secret?"

"The same as that of my grandfather, if the stories are to be believed. Now, boots off."

"I think I'll stay like this for a bit, actually."

He seemed rather pleased with himself, telling me what to do in my own house. But he forgot who he was dealing with, obviously. I stomped over to him, and, lifting his feet one by one, stripped him of his shoes. I threw them in the corner of the room, so he would have to get up to fetch them. He wasn't nearly as amused as I was by this, and glared at me.

"Fetch my boots, you insufferable woman."

"No. If you want your precious boots, get them yourself."

"Do you have any idea how much those cost?"

"Do you have any idea how much my desk cost?"

"Do you think I care?"

"No. But neither do I. Which is why I won't get your boots."

"How would you like it if I stole your expensive shoes, hm?"

"I certainly wouldn't be as upset as you, though I really would like to see you try."

He stood up from my chair and pushed me, knocking me onto my bottom. He looked down at me with his devious grin back on his face, and before I knew exactly what was going on, I was stripped of more than my shoes.

What had started off as an argument about shoes continued as a merciless romp across the floor of the study. Every so often, he would get up, stark naked, and walk away from me – I think he was trying to be a tease – but I would jump up on his back and wrestle him back to the floor, not keen on losing this or that wonderful feeling.

I'm not sure when he left, but when I finally got off the floor, it was dark out, and my stomach ached for supper.

Completely worth it.

Author's Note: So, I have officially made Adaryn a...well, I'm not sure. I suppose she's an antihero, now...

Anyway, I wrote myself into a corner, earlier, but after a rewrite of the beginning of the chapter, and a nice long break before the ending of it, I feel pretty confident. Hopefully, this chapter doesn't suck (can anyone tell I have confidence issues when it comes to writing?). I also realize that I have a tendency of ending sections with a single sentence or short phrase. I can't for the life of me figure out why I keep doing it, but I've tried to rewrite it, with no luck.

This story is going to be quite the challenge...especially with all the plans I have for Adaryn.


	7. The Tick of Life

Twenty-two.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-four.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-six.

Twenty-seven.

Six years passed. Six years of aging for Papa, six years of being dead for Jasper, six more years of tyranny for my father, and six years of youth and vitality for me. I would forever be twenty-one, and as I rejoined society, began attending parties and balls and tea, all around me remarked on how healthy I looked, how young, how beautiful. Only Papa ever frowned, when he caught me lingering in front of a mirror during one of our visits.

I was not ashamed. I felt no guilt. Funny how things in life can harden a person. Once, I was an innocent little child, new to the world of pain and suffering. Now, I had killed people, had won eternal life.

I was sent my first Dark Seal soon after my twenty-third birthday. It was an odd thing, to see what had brought me my new life on my desk, but I knew what was to be done. I had a few lovers at that point, as I was free to have relationships with whomever I wanted, so I asked on of them to accompany me on a trip. He was a tall, muscled fellow named Glenn, and he was sweet to me, and made me scream when we went to bed, but he was the youngest and most youthful of my lovers. I felt a twinge when his life was sucked out of his body, but the twinge went away and I left him there.

It arrived every year after that. By the fifth year, I had sacrificed a lover, a servant, a prostitute, a drunk, and a mercenary. Glenn, Mary, 'Lady,' Henry, Jim. After Jim, I started lining up another victim, another contestant in my game of life.

It wasn't as easy at it would seem from past sacrifices. Reaver had years of practice, had years of flirting and sex and appeal, years of fear. He knew how to get what he wanted, so for him, it was easy. I had to try harder; all my victims had to be led, they all had to be accompanied, and if I was not discreet, I could be seen leaving together and returning alone; how would I explain disappearances if it was to get out?

So I hid. I waited until nightfall to leave, and boarded a small ship with my companion. Always the same ship, with the captain that I paid off. He would take us to Bloodstone, spend the night with whores while I went into Wraithmarsh, and then take me back to Bowerstone when I returned alone. It was the perfect setup, and no one knew anything was out of the ordinary.

No one but my shadow.

* * *

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

Thirty.

Thirty-one.

Papa was old. My father was getting old. My siblings were waiting impatiently to take over, to fight amongst themselves about who was worthy, if it should be the eldest or the strongest. My mother had died.

I was still young. I was still free.

The death-count was up to nine. You could argue that it wasn't a 'death-count,' as all I did was take their youth, but after the deed was done, I left them to rot in the Shadow Court's hall. Four had fallen to old age and death, and I kept my youth.

Thirty-two.

Thirty-three.

I didn't bother even asking their names. If they were known to me, I soon forgot them. Even the first five, whose names I could remember, were beginning to fade. Their faces were blurs in my memory, and I felt nothing.

And my shadow knew it.

* * *

A/N: I know this is a very short chapter. And I know it's been way too long since I updated. I swear I never meant to take so long...I meant to write, but then college forced writer's block on me. Finals are coming up (next week), so I should figure something out.

And I apologize if you hate the counting off of birthdays. I put it in for a reason, obviously, but I still apologize.


	8. Inevitable Sorrow

A year later, in the middle of spring, I moved back to Brightwall to live with Papa. He was old, now, and that meant his body was frail, and he needed someone to take care of him. I had my furniture covered, my house locked up tight, and the man I put in charge of managing my accounts in Bowerstone was creepy and too excited, so I paid one of his assistants to watch him and report back to me if he did anything stupid.

Papa did well that spring, and with me by his side, he was able to enjoy a few walks around the town. He spent a lot of his time in his armchair, it was true, but I didn't pester him about his idleness, as I thought it was no harm to let an old man rest. When summer came, and it heated up, his bones gave him less trouble, and we went for more walks. They were shorter – he would complain about being tired or too hot – but they were much more frequent than before.

Meals were always peaceful. He still had his appetite, and was usually very calm, so I never had reason to worry.

I still felt the eyes of my shadow's toys, but I ignored them so I could tend to the one who needed me.

* * *

In late fall, my token of youth found itself in Papa's study, which I had taken over to help him with whatever he needed of a business nature (I had become quite the wealthy widow, and owned more than a few properties in Bowerstone, so he knew I would be able to help him when he couldn't be bothered). I knew I could not ignore the seal, though I wanted to, so I told Papa that I had business in Bowerstone that had to be attended to, and told the girl who cooked our meals find someone to take care of him while I was away.

I said my goodbyes, wrote up an IOU for the replacement caregiver, and took the earliest monorail back. I still had to find someone to take to the Shadow Court, and I didn't want to make them wait too long, since the last time I was lazy and fell behind – about five years into my exchanges – I was told to be very careful, for fear of 'upsetting them.'

I found it difficult to find anyone who would go with me; I had been gone for months, and though I had become popular during my early years as 'the widow princess' (I had heard a few call me that under their breath at parties), people were busy or drunk or unwilling to join me in an unnamed trip. So I decided to go to Bloodstone alone, seal in hand, and find someone there who would follow me.

It was fairly easy; looking back, I don't know why I had been so worried about gaining a 'helper.' Like the first time, all I had to do was find a highly-populated space, call out that I needed help, and let those who would accept my gold flock to me. I said I would pay them after, as I had to make sure they wouldn't leave me as soon as I handed over the money. I told them I needed help retrieving a 'priceless artifact,' and that only trained swords would do.

I got five volunteers. And I only needed one. So I picked the strongest.

When I left the Shadow Court's hall, not a coin lighter, feeling refreshed from an exhilarating trip, I stopped and took a deep breath of swamp air. Yes, Wraithmarsh was nasty and infested with Banshees and Hollow Men, but it had a certain charm to it. Perhaps because it was here that I had woken up, truly, to who I was. What I was capable of.

As nasty as the swamp was, it would always be special.

As nasty as the swamp was, something deep inside of me wanted to call it 'home.'

* * *

When I returned to Brightwall, in time for hot cocoa and fires and days spent indoors, I was not welcomed as I would have liked.

I was greeted by my temporary replacement, who seemed to be having a panic attack and wouldn't tell me why. She just kept pointing to the staircase, and rambling on about how she didn't know what happened, that everything was fine, that none of it should have been happening. I grabbed her shoulder and demanded to know what was going on, and all she said was, "The other girl, she went to fetch a doctor."

It was all I needed to know.

I raced up the stairs, two at a time, and stopped dead on the landing when I saw a crumpled body lying on the floor. I don't quite remember what happened after that, as it was a bit blurred by desperation. I know that I was over the body at some point, and that I picked it up, which caused a surprised noise behind me, and then I was staring at a body in a bed, before I was shoved out of the room.

The girls made me sit in Papa's armchair downstairs. They gave me tea, and some lunch, and begged me to eat.

"You look pale," they said.

"You need to eat," they said.

"Please, Mistress, everything will be fine, surely," they said.

I dozed off in front of the fire.

* * *

I woke up some time after the sun had set, and called out for some food (what was forced on me earlier was cold and soggy), which was brought to me as quickly as the two girls could manage. As I ate, still in Papa's armchair, they pestered me with questions about how I was: if I felt ill, if I felt faint, if I felt tired, or nervous, or worried. I knew why they were asking, though I couldn't remember specifics, and told them they could calm down and go home.

"If the doctor is here, and I'm here, you may go home and rest. I'll send word in the morning, should I need you."

They were very quiet for a bit, but nodded and took the plates from in front of me. A few minutes later, I heard the kitchen door close.

After a few more minutes in front of the fire, I forced myself up from Papa's chair and went to his study. His bedroom was down the hall, but I forced myself to stay in front of the desk. There were more than a few papers missing, I noted, but the inkwell was also dry, and the wax stick looked shorter. I was sure I had everything in order before I left, but my tired mind wasn't sure it could remember what documents were there before. So I went to my room, undressed, and fell into bed.

I was done with the day, and the day was done with me. But the weeks to come were sneaking up on me.

As I fell asleep, I heard the kitchen door open.

* * *

A/N: So...yeah.

I would like to take this time to mentioned that I completely REJECT Fable: The Journey as canon. I refuse to accept it, I refuse to acknowledge it, as it ruins my precious Fable universe. (No, I have never played it, and I don't plan to.)

Also, I haven't read any of the books, but I've looked at summaries...so I'm not sure how I feel about that. Probably still not canon.

Anyway, this is going to be...unpleasant for me the next chapter or two. For those of you who actually read this (all...what, seven of you that follow/favorite this), I apologize in advance, as I'm sure you can guess who's going bye-bye next.


	9. The Only Father I Had Ever Known

The three weeks of hell, as I now remember them, dragged on longer than I would have liked. True, the end of those three weeks was heartbreaking, but suffering slowly was not preferable to suffering all at once.

I spent time in the study, arranging papers and replying to letters, in an attempt to busy myself. The doctor was with us during the day, provided he didn't have to be elsewhere, so I slept next to Papa's bed at night, in case anything happened.

I had to wake him for meals, during which I was there to talk to if he chose, but most of the time he was sleeping. Occasionally it would worry me, that he slept so much, but I would voice these worries to the doctor, who would assure me that Papa was old and sick, and sleep would do him some good. I tried to believe him, tried to convince myself it was true.

But then it got worse.

* * *

Two weeks after he collapsed, Papa's breathing grew heavy and labored. I was never told anything was wrong, but I knew it wasn't right, and I saw the expression on the doctor's face. One day, I decided to confront him before he left.

"Sir, I need you to tell me if he's worse. I need to know. Please."

He didn't want to say anything at first, but when he saw my face, he sighed and replied, obviously taking great care to pick his words.

"Prince Logan is...not better than before. His breathing is difficult now, but it could...it could be fine. His age makes me less certain, this is true, but he was still fairly strong before this."

"That's not the answer I was looking for."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness."

"Don't give me false hope. False hope never helps."

"If you know it's false hope, why did you ask?"

He had a point. I couldn't respond, so he left with a bow, and I returned to my place at Papa's bedside.

I fell asleep that night with tears in my eyes.

* * *

Papa woke me up the next morning with his coughing. I shot up from my slouched position, and when my eyes adjusted to the morning light – apparently the maids had decided to open the curtains – I turned to see if he was alright.

He was sitting up, with a tray sitting untouched next to him. He looked so old and tired in that second, coughing and staring at the blankets he was buried under. I got up from my spot and sat next to him on the bed, careful to be gentle and quiet.

He moved to take my hand, and I held his frail fingers in mine for what seemed like an eternity. His gaze had moved to the windows, his expression sad. I stroked his hand, and he managed a low grunt in response.

"You worried me, Papa. I came home and thought I had lost you."

He said nothing back, so I continued.

"You've been in bed for three weeks. The doctor has been here; I'm sure you remember that, though. I've been making sure everything is in order in the study, and I've been sleeping in the chair over there, in case you need me."

He still said nothing, his eyes fixed on the snow-covered world outside. For a moment, I thought perhaps he couldn't hear me, and in an effort to prove myself wrong, I started to ask him a question. He cut me off before I could start.

"When you were a baby, and I took you from your parents, I had such hopes for you. I wanted to see you happily married, I wanted to have grand-nephews and grand-nieces...I wanted you to be happy."

"Papa–"

"Sometimes I wished, as you were growing up, that I had married, and had children of my own. I wished you could have more than just me, and Jasper."

"You were good parents, Papa. I was happy."

"I should have taken you from here. I should have hidden us away, or taken us to somewhere Miles couldn't find us. Damn him and his rules; you deserved better. You should have had better."

He started coughing again, and my hands tightened around his. He seemed so frail, so weak...so old and broken. And the things he was saying made me nervous.

"You were different from your siblings. Even as a baby, I realized it. You were so precious to me..."

"Papa, it's alright. I know. You need more rest; you need to get better."

"Adaryn."

"No, stop. Sleep."

"Adaryn. Listen."

"Papa, you need–"

"Adaryn! I'm not getting better."

"Stop it. Of course you are. You aren't that old, yet, and you've been doing alright."

"I'm not getting better. I can feel it. Today, I think..."

I felt tears. My eyes stung, my lips quivered, my chin scrunched up. I knew what he was trying to say, and I didn't want to hear it. He turned his head to look at me, eyes still sad and tired, and leaned over to kiss my forehead.

"I've always loved you. You were my daughter. Miles can claim you as much as he wants; you were my daughter. I raised you, I loved you..."

He sighed and turned to face the window again. I moved closer to him, my hands practically crushing his now. A sad smile came to his face, and he laid back on his pillows.

"I was a tyrant. Not like Miles, but still a tyrant. I think I made up for it."

"Of course, Papa. Of course you did."

"I'm happy. I've made my peace with the world. And I may not have any children to outlive me, but I have you."

He closed his eyes, and his sad smile turned happy.

"I've made my peace."

"Papa... Uncle Logan... What am I supposed to do without you?"

"You live your life, Little Bird. Your eternal life."

"You know?"

"I've known."

"Papa..."

"It's fine. You'll outlive everyone of us. And maybe you can use it for good. Not like Reaver."

"I love you."

"I love you, too. My precious girl."

I started crying, but he couldn't hear me.

He had used his last breaths to say his goodbyes.

* * *

My father didn't care that his brother was dead. He didn't want the body, just like he hadn't wanted Jasper's. The only body he had cared about was Walter's, back when he still had some humanity in him.

I had Jasper buried in my late husband's family plot, years before. And now I had Logan buried there.

Papa was gone. There weren't many at the funeral, but that didn't matter to me. My heart had been ripped out, for a second time, and now I had to face eternity without a real family.

This time, I didn't feel the familiar gaze of toys. In my moment of grief, my shadow was watching me, not their toys. My shadow.

I cried again.

* * *

A/N: SORRY I'M NOT SORRY!

I killed him. He's gone. Bye-bye. In the ground. Never coming back. She's alone. Forever and forever.

Finals are this week; will hopefully have a new chapter up after them (maybe before, if I keep ignoring the need to study and finish last-minute work; who needs sleep?).


End file.
